Swallowed the Key
by genies
Summary: Victor was always the secretive one. He hid his stories inside him like codes written in invisible ink, in a book with an unbreakable lock.


**I'm sorry. Fell asleep and then gave up lmao.**

 **Written for the Monthly Oneshot Cntest and the Rainbow It Up In Here Contest at Caesar's Palace.**

* * *

i. the attic

Victor was always the secretive one. He hid his stories inside him like codes written in invisible ink, in a book with an unbreakable lock.

For some reason, Yuuri thought that he'd receive that key when he moved into the apartment. Victor would press it into his hand and say, "Just for you," and Yuuri would explore all the rooms in the mansion that was Victor's heart, and suddenly he and Victor would share a subconscious, a tome of secrets that both of them had authored. And things would make sense.

He should have known that Victor always aimed to surprise.

Yuuri and Victor were affectionate, sure. They fit into each other's arms like they were coming home. Being together felt like walking up into an attic adorned with fairy lights, and the attic had toy trains and plush loveseats just big enough for two. Sometimes, Yuuri could almost imagine that the world didn't exist beyond that room, that Victor hadn't swallowed the keys to his compartments of memories.

But then he would ask a question like, "What about your parents? When can I meet them?"

The doors would shut, and the shutters would close, and Yuuri would find himself stranded in a familiar place he didn't know. A crowded alcove where you shove the things you don't want to think about anymore.

"They're always on vacation, you know."

* * *

ii. the kitchen

Victor went to work with Yurio at the rink pretty much every day, and he was thinking of starting his own skating school to keep up his income once the sponsorships stopped rolling in. That left Yuuri with some time on his hands in between his dance lessons and skating sessions. He'd recently taken to cooking, alternating between trying Russian dishes and those he knew from childhood. The cozy kitchen brought them close, both because it was barely large enough for a table and because they both loved to share a cheeky glance over a forkful of food.

"Hey, Phichit." Yuuri pressed his phone between his neck and his shoulder as he filled his rice cooker with water. "Do you have a minute?"

"Yuuri!" came the ecstatic reply. "What's up? Are you finally settling into Victor's apartment?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's good. Nice. Great. But, uh, I have a code 101 alert."

"Oh, no, that's usually a me thing." The two of them had decided back in Detroit that this code would be invoked in the instance of boy trouble. "Need me to pick you up from a party?"

"Yeah, just catch a plane as soon as you can. I'll be waiting." Yuuri heard Phichit snicker. "But seriously, I need to ask you for some advice."

Yuuri laid it out, starting with how Victor never told him about his past lovers, his family, his childhood. Two years of a relationship, and all he knew was what the media knew, and to be frank, he'd known all that before they even met.

Victor's mother was Russian. He'd been been a little crazy as a young man, getting into all sorts of trouble, but he hadn't always been that way. He'd had a few one-off deals during his youth. His childhood was filled with ballet and skating and Yakov. That wasn't a lot.

Yuuri had his suspicions; Victor wasn't great with emotions of others, so he probably wasn't great with his own.

Phichit sighed tiredly. What he meant to say was, _Yuuri it's wrong of you to think that every shard of Victor's broken past will fix itself because he has a boyfriend now._ What he actually said was, "You have to talk to him," which was advice pretty much just as good.

* * *

iii. the living room

Yuuri tapped his knee impatiently. He didn't want to rehearse what he was going to say, but his mind would wander and conjure up all his ghosts. Anxiety. Insecurity.

The door swung open.

"Yurio was so frustrating today, always trying the quad loop as soon as I'd turn my back. That boy doesn't even want to wear a harness," Victor trailed off into a mumble.

"Hey." Yuuri peeked his head over the couch with a soft smile. "How are you feeling? Good enough for a talk?"

Yuuri watched Victor bolt his doors in real time. He slid them closed with startled ferocity, frantic in his motions. "What kind of talk?"

A gulp. The keys going down.

"Just about us. You're not in trouble, but I'm worried about you."

Victor pasted on his outside face, and Yuuri felt his walls crumbling away.

"There's really nothing to worry about."

"Talk to me, Victor. Are you okay?"

"I just need space."

"I gave you time and space for two years. I want to help."

Victor kicked off his shoes. "I just got back from work. Later?"

"Sit next to me, Vitya." Yuuri tapped the space beside him on the couch. "I love you."

Victor paused before shuffling over. "I know."

"I can't believe you thought I don't know you well enough to… realize. It's not exactly hard. You're very bad at changing the subject." Yuuri could draw Victor's silhouette from memory, pick him out in a crowd of clones, predict some of his next moves. But he didn't know what lay beyond the shadow, in between the wires, behind the mastermind. He only guessed and was sometimes right.

Victor knew what he meant; the issue had been hanging around them like humid, suffocating air. "Why is knowing my past so important? You already know what kind of man I am today. You fell in love with that man."

"The boy affects the man. You know that. You give me so much. You're a sun. I know there's a reason you don't like to talk about that stuff. But I see you hurting, and I don't know how to help. Love is more than giving. It's sharing, too."

The two of them stared at each other for what felt like a century.

Victor reached for Yuuri's hand. "Okay. I'm not agreeing, but I'm trying to understand. But you learned my entire short program instead of trying to make friends the normal way, so maybe we're both bad at communication."

* * *

iv. the bedroom

Yuuri folded down the edges of their bedsheets with firm hands, smoothing out each wrinkle with care.

There'd always be something he didn't know. A dustball or spider in the corner. A box in the closet. But he lived there in the heart of the home, too. He had cried there, loved there, healed there. It had taken a while, but he had a master key to the closet. He could grab a vacuum after a surprise.


End file.
